


It's My Party, I'll Complain If I Want To

by inkreservoir



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alcohol (but no drunkenness), Birthday, Corporate Birthday Greetings, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 00:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16608152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkreservoir/pseuds/inkreservoir
Summary: “… Just because it’s your birthday, Mr. Jacobi,” Jacobi mimics. “Because it was just goingtoowell, huh? No, I can’t just have a normal day of being forced to stay back even longer at work without hearing some kind ofcomment.”





	It's My Party, I'll Complain If I Want To

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jihyunkim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jihyunkim/gifts).



> This fic was written for my best friend [jihyunkim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jihyunkim), whose birthday is, incidentally, November 13th. Happy birthday, Jacobi!

Jacobi’s computer pings the second he shrugs off his coat and sits in front of it. He glances at Alana.

She meets his look with a smile. “There’s no motion sensors programmed into your chair as far as I know.”

“Wouldn’t be surprising, though.” Jacobi scoots closer to the desk. “Maybe it’s in the computer.”

“It’s definitely not in the computer,” Alana assures him. “That, I _would_ know.”

Jacobi double clicks the e-mail icon and grumbles when he sees the label. _Special Message_. A recording he _has_ to listen to, because it’ll be reported back if he doesn’t. Best to just get it over with quickly.

“Good morning, Daniel!” comes the irritatingly recognizable, far-too-perky-for-pre-11-a.m. voice of Mr. Cutter. 

Jacobi sighs.

“Today is a _very_ special day, isn’t it?” Cutter continues. “Or so you might be thinking, if you’re not careful! Since you _have_ been with us for four years with a good track record and no life-costing accidents, instead of the standard automated e-mail that the higher-ups of the company so _lovingly_ worked with astrologers to craft so that it sounds specific to any Scorpio who might receive it, we’re sending you this _actual_ personalized message.”

“Hurrah,” Jacobi tells the screen.

“Studies show that people tend to get a certain, mm, false sense of entitlement when their birthdays come around,” Cutter alleges. “For example, you might start to get such thoughts as, ‘Well, since it’s my birthday, I deserve a nice little break from all the _very important work_ that I’m doing for the corporation I signed off all my legal rights and livelihood to, and it won’t _hurt_ if I cut a corner here or there.’”

He pauses, presumably for dramatic effect.

“Well!” he exclaims. “I’m here to remind you that that isn’t the case. That that’s _never_ the case, in fact. Just like every other day of the year, your life matters as much as the value that you contribute to this company— and, through this company, the value that you contribute to the world.”

_Awh_ , Jacobi thinks, almost _overwhelmed_ by the warm, fuzzy feelings that thinking about helping the whole world fills him with. 

“The moment you signed that contract with Goddard Futuristics was a moment of rebirth,” Cutter tells him. “A chance to… renew yourself. Forget about past mistakes, and let go of a less productive, less valuable, and _much_ less fun life.

“So, to summarize,” Cutter says. “Basically what I want to make sure that you know today is, if the moment this recording ends, you don’t get back to work at the same standard we expect at the top-class, most innovative research and technology facility on our planet… well. You’d better hope the birthday fireworks are pretty, because you won’t be seeing them from a very good angle when you’re exploding.”

Cutter goes quiet, but Jacobi can see that there’s still a few seconds left of the recording.

“Oh, and happy birthday.”

Of course.

Jacobi checks to make sure the read receipt is delivered before he deletes the e-mail. He should’ve put headphones on first, but Alana’s not looking at him, so he supposes it’s fine. 

“That sure was cheery,” he comments. 

“Makes me real excited to get mine in a couple years,” Alana replies, and Jacobi shakes his head. It’s not like his birthday’s ever gotten in the way of his ability to get work done before, but he learned a long time ago that logic never takes precedence over acting like a supervillain around here. He gets up to grab a coffee, and the regular early morning tapping-keys-without-talking sounds fall over the office. 

Kepler enters a little after one, a short, “Afternoon,” by way of a greeting as he takes his seat at the main desk. He picks up a sheet of paper, then springs up again and proceeds to launch into a series of questions related to their current assignments. It’s standard procedure for a Monday, and a nice change of pace from the stiff corporate obligatory “Happy Birthday”s Kepler had insisted on giving him first thing in the morning every November 12 th for the last three years.  Maybe when you get your special personal Mr. Cutter recording everyone just assumes you’ve figured out your birthday doesn’t matter here.

“Any questions?” Kepler asks when he’s done recording their updates. “Or anything you want to remind me of?”

Ha-ha. 

“No, sir,” Jacobi and Alana say as one. 

“Good,” Kepler says, giving them an approving nod. He sits behind his desk once more. 

It’s not like working is harder with Kepler in the room, but it’s definitely quieter. Jacobi doesn’t mind cracking jokes every now and then, but Alana’s relatively new and hasn’t really figured out what kinds of jokes one _can_ make around Kepler without being told off yet. It feels like it’s been a long time since Jacobi remembers feeling that way, but it hasn’t, really. Spend four years with anything and you’re bound to start feeling like you know it. 

He looks up when Kepler loudly clears his throat.

“Mr. Jacobi,” Kepler says.

“Yes, sir?”

Kepler stands up, and Jacobi’s back stiffens as he makes his way around the desk over to where Jacobi’s seated. He puts his hands down firmly on the table, Jacobi’s coffee vibrating a little with the impact. His dark brown eyes seem to bore into Jacobi’s, making it hard for Jacobi’s mind to race through his assignments and deadlines to check if he missed something.

Kepler straightens. “Happy birthday.”

Jacobi’s fingers clench. “Thanks.”

Kepler’s eyebrows furrow, and then he goes back to his desk, picks up his coat, and leaves the room. The door clicks shut behind him.

After a few silent minutes, Jacobi looks at Alana. “Is that it?”

“I… guess?” she replies. “Maybe he doesn’t have a lot of work today?”

“Or maybe he doesn’t have any, and just wanted to annoy me.”

“Pfft,” Alana grins. “I mean, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Jacobi doesn’t think Alana’s ever wished him a happy birthday in the two years since he met her. They had a conversation about birthdays _once_ , and Jacobi said he doesn’t like his, and she never brought it up after that.  It’s just another dumb day on the calendar, and as long as he’s working for Goddard, it’s more a site for jokes than it is for any kind of celebration. 

The employee contract says that Jacobi’s a regular full-time employee on a normal 9-to-5 schedule, but there’s no such thing as a 9-to-5 at Goddard, or maybe just not in their division. The lights come on automatically when the sun starts to set outside the giant office windows. The building has special lightbulbs meant to mimic natural sunlight, so the fact it’s November hardly makes a difference. 

“I don’t know, I almost miss working in shitty fluorescent lighting,” Alana laments. “It feels super quintessentially lab-y.”

“I mean, you could probably put in a request,” Jacobi says. “‘Oh, sorry, I just _really_ hate the expensive, actually good lighting you have going on in here. I need the flickery headache-inducing ones to help me feel like a _real_ scientist.’” He pauses. “Not like they’ve never done something stupid for a mood before.”

“True,” Alana agrees. “It’s also just kind of weird how it’s pitch-black outside and feels like 4 p.m. in here. I mean, what time is it anyway?”

That’s probably why they do it in the first place. If it doesn’t _feel_ like it’s five yet, the ridiculous amounts of overtime required by this job are less bewildering.

“Oh, jeez, it’s ten already,” Alana murmurs. “Maybe we should go home now.”

“Yeah.”

 

Jacobi saves all his work, feeling surprisingly energetic. All that’s left to do is drive Alana home and go to bed, probably. He’d already taken a dinner break earlier, so that was all taken care of. 

Alana’s wrapping her scarf around her face when the office door opens.

“Oh, hey Colonel,” Alana greets Kepler.

“Isn’t it a little late?” Jacobi asks. 

“Well hello to you too,” Kepler says. Jacobi and Alana exchange glances.

“Did you forget something here?” Alana asks, and Kepler shakes his head.

“Actually, I need to talk to Mr. Jacobi,” Kepler looks at him, then back to Alana. “I know he’s usually your ride home, but it’s probably gonna be awhile. I arranged a taxi to come get you.”

What.

Alana raises her eyebrows at Jacobi. He shrugs. 

“Well… good luck, then,” she says. “See you guys tomorrow.”

She waves at Jacobi as she leaves the office. Once she’s gone, Kepler gestures for the sofas around the coffee table.

“Sit,” Kepler tells him.

Jacobi sighs. “Is there no way to make this quick?”

“No, I’m afraid this is fairly important,” Kepler says. “You don’t get to leave before I dismiss you just because it’s your birthday, Mr. Jacobi. So I’ll say it again, once. _Sit_.”

Jacobi’s lips flatten into a line, and Kepler goes over to the lighting panel to dim them. 

“I’ll be right back, so wait here,” Kepler tells Jacobi when it actually looks like evening in the room. He walks out.

“… _Just because it’s your birthday, Mr. Jacobi_ ,” Jacobi mimics. “Because it was just going _too_ well, huh? No, I can’t just have a _normal_ day of being forced to stay back even longer at work without hearing some kind of _comment_.”

It probably doesn’t matter either way.

Jacobi realizes Kepler’s hands are full when he pushes the door open again with his shoulder.

“Oh, god.” Jacobi watches him enter, balancing a box on one hand and holding a bottle in the other. “This can’t be happening.”

Kepler places them on the table, grabs some plates and glasses from a cabinet, then sits on the sofa adjacent to Jacobi. “It’s happening,” he tells him. 

The cake looks like chocolate, a small rectangle of a thing probably only meant to be shared among a couple of people and eaten in one sitting. Kepler leans forward and makes a cut. “I’m not gonna sing to you.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Jacobi groans at the mental image. “I— honestly, Colonel, I’m not really in the mood for cake—”

“Well, I am.” Kepler grabs his wrist and shoves a plate of cake in his hand. 

Jacobi purses his lips, and Kepler opens the bottle of whiskey and pours them each a little glass. Of course he chose whiskey. Typical.

Kepler picks up his own dish and fork.

A moment passes. “You know, Jacobi.” Jacobi braces himself. “When I go out of my way to celebrate a _non-work-related_ occasion for _your_ sake, the least you could do is act a _tiny_ bit interested.”

Jacobi snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

“Am I supposed to eat this cake by myself, Mr. Jacobi?”

Jacobi pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know what’s funny, Colonel.”

“A lot of things are funny,” Kepler takes a bite of his cake.

“No, I mean—” Jacobi starts, then rolls his eyes. “What’s _funny_ is that it’s not even my birthday right now. You got the date wrong.” He waggles his fingers. “Surprise!”

Kepler leans back, drink in hand. “I’m not sure what kind of joke you think that is,” Kepler says. “But I’ve seen your records, Jacobi.”

“Yeah, about that,” Jacobi says. “The date on them’s wrong. If you wanna get technical about it, I was born on the _thirteenth_ , not the twelfth.”

Kepler watches him.

“It was a Friday night, or a Saturday morning,” he shrugs. “Close enough to Friday to make my superstitious father think the _unlucky number_ was gonna make a difference, anyway. Well, I turned out unlucky despite his best efforts, so there wasn’t much point to saying yes when the doctors suggested they can put the wrong date down.”

Jacobi looks up, meeting Kepler’s eyes. “But, yeah! It’s the wrong date, no matter how you look at it. I guess not even the top-class, most innovative research and technology facility on our planet, Goddard Futuristics, would know that.”

A beat passes, and then Kepler chuckles. Jacobi lets his gaze drift to the window, light reflecting on the glass.

“That’s a good story, Jacobi,” Kepler states. “You should hold onto that one. It’d make a good addition to your budding career as a stand-up comedian.”

“Right, yeah,” Jacobi agrees. “Because once you’re at Goddard and in the SI-5, dropping all of it and hitting the roads to tell jokes is a thing you can do.” He pauses. “Well, I guess once you’re important enough, they do start letting you act like a clown, though.”

“Watch it, Jacobi,” Kepler says warningly, and Jacobi glares at the plate in his hand. Did Kepler not get a message like the one Mr. Cutter sent Jacobi this morning his fourth year here? The day you join the company is the day of your rebirth. Nothing before it matters, and nothing outside of it matters. Kepler should know that better than anyone. Of course he does, he was the one who taught it to Jacobi in the first place.

Jacobi runs a hand through his hair. “As… _lovely_ as this all is… can you just say you’re making fun of me and let me go home, please. It’s late, and it’s already been a long day.”

“No,” Kepler says. “You go home when I say you can go home, and that’s not gonna be until _after_ you’ve had some cake.” He points at Jacobi’s untouched slice. “It’s only polite, after all.”

“ _Fine_.” 

He jabs his fork into the fucking cake. 

Kepler digs into his piece too, and Jacobi can’t even appreciate how expensive this probably was, the chocolate heavy on his tongue in his irritation with it. The drinks sit full on the table.

He’s not even halfway through the slice when Kepler breaks the silence.

“You know, the thing about birthdays,” he starts, and Jacobi knows what’s coming. “Did I ever tell you about the two months I spent undercover on the principality of Sealand?”

Jacobi shoves more cake in his mouth. “No, sir.”

“Well, I was there investigating a monarchial uprising that had taken its time trickling down from the first incident in ’78,” Kepler claims. “And it just so happened that my fifth week there was also the week of the man living next door’s birthday. Do you know anything about Sealand, Jacobi?”

“Not really.”

“Well, they have a very tiny population,” Kepler tells him. “Less than thirty people live there in total, in fact. So when it’s anyone’s birthday, they just invite everyone in the country to come to the party.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And people in Sealand? Well,” Kepler chuckles. “They know how to have a good party.”

“That’s great, Colonel.”

“They don’t really have a whole lot of holidays or much to do, after all,” Kepler goes on, indifferent. “I figured they just don’t have anything better to celebrate. So we’re at this party, and— well, I don’t need to get into the small emergency that came up with the prince’s wine, though I’ll tell you how I saved his life another time—”

Once he’s had more time to make it up, surely.

“Everyone’s having a blast, drinking, lots of cake, more cake than the entire little nation could eat. It’s a very tiny island, after all... and birthdays are few and far between.  Plus, they don’t really have a whole lot to do all day. It’s not like there’s skyscrapers to work in.”

Jacobi nods, cake almost finished.

“But they think birthdays are a big deal,” Kepler shrugs. “A micronation, practically irrelevant to the entire rest of the world, full of people who don’t really do anything. A place with virtually no accomplishments… but they celebrate birthdays, and they have a holiday celebrating the declaration of its establishment.” He nods at Jacobi. “The man the party was being thrown for? He wasn’t even old. He was maybe thirty, never did anything in his whole life except move to Sealand and buy himself a piece of paper that says he’s a royal duke of the place.” 

Kepler picks up his glass, swirls the caramel-coloured liquid around the bottom. “Long story short, even people who matter a lot less than you do get celebrated for existing, if people care that they exist.”

Jacobi stares at him.

Kepler finishes the last couple bites of his cake, then looks at his watch. “Ah,” he says. “It’s past midnight… on the thirteenth.”

Jacobi puts his empty plate back on the table. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Kepler raises his glass. “Happy birthday, Jacobi.”

Jacobi leans forward, picks up his own glass, and raises it too. “Thank you, Colonel.”

They drink.


End file.
